Volume 100 — THE NEW TALE OF A TUB; OR, THE NOT-AT-HOME SECRETARY AND THE LAUNDRESSES.
Reading edition
"CAN'T SEE YOU NOW, I'M WASHING—MYSELF."
"The Women are crying out for the protection of the Factory Acts, which has hitherto been denied them, and which the Home Secretary declines to pledge the Government to support."—Daily Telegraph, Friday, June 12th.
London Laundry-woman, to her Tub-mate, loquitur:—
They tell us the Tub is humanity's friend, and that Cleanliness is of closest kin To all things good. By the newest gospel 'tis held that Dirt is the friend of Sin. Well, I'm not so sure that the world's far wrong in that Worship of Washing that's all the rage; But we, its priestesses, sure might claim a cleanly life and a decent wage! Listen, BET, from your comfortless seat on the turned-up pail,—if you've got the time; Isn't it queer that Society's cleansers must pass their lives amidst muck and grime? Spotless flannels no doubt are nice—and snowy linen is "swell" and sweet, But steaming reek is around our heads, and trickling foulness about our feet. If the dainty ladies whose linen we lave, we laundress drudges, could look in here, Wouldn't their feet shrink back with sickness, and wouldn't their faces go pale with fear? White, well-ironed, all sheen and sweetness, that linen looks when it leaves our hands; But they little think of the sodden squalor that marks the den where the laundress stands. Scrub, scrub, scrub, at the reeking tub, for eighteen hours at a stretch, perchance, Till our bowed backs ache, and our knuckles smart, and the lights through the steam like spectres dance; Ankle-deep in the watery sludge, where the tile is loose or the drainage blocked! Oh, I haven't a doubt that the dainty dames—if they only knew!—would be sorely shocked. Typhoid! Terribly menacing word, the whisper of which would destroy our trade; But dirt, and damp, and defective drainage will raise that ghost on a world afraid; And at thirty years our strength is sapped by insidious siege of the stifling fume, Or what if we linger a little longer? Scant rays of comfort such life illume. Grievances, BET? Well, I make no doubt that the world of idlers is sorely sick Of the moans and groans of the likes of us. When the whip, the needle, the spade, the pick, Are all on strike for a higher wage, 'tis a worry, of course, to the well-to-do, And a sleek Home-Sec, must "decline to pledge" support official to me and you. Of course, of course! Who are we, my dear, to bother the big-wigs and stir their bile? Why, it's all along of our "discontent," and the Agitator's insidious guile. But Labour, BET, is agog just now to revise the old one-sided pacts, And even a Laundress may have an eye to the benefit of the Factory Acts. Those bad, bad 'Busmen, BET my girl, claim shorter hours, and a longer pay; Just think of such for the Slaves of the Tub! Why should we women not have our say In the Park o' Sunday, like DAN the Docker, or TOM the Tailor, or WILL the "Whip"? The Tub and the Ironing-board appear to have got a chance—which they mustn't let slip: An Object Lesson in Laundress Labour, may move the callous and shame the quiz. We dream of "Washing as well it might be"; we'll show them "Washing as now it is." We know it, BET, in the sodden wet and the choking fume; with the aching back, The long, long hours, and the typhoid taint, the inverted pail and the hurried snack. There may—who knows?—be hope for us yet, for you and me, BET! Just think o' that! Oh, I know it is hard to believe it, my girl. The Sweater's strong, and appeal falls flat On official ears; and fine-lady fears, and household hurry against us go; But "evil is wrought by want of thought." says some poet, I think;—so we'll let them know! Ah! snowy sheets and sweet lavender scent of the dear old days in my village home! The breadths of linen a-bleach on the grass! How little I thought that to this I'd come Grand ladies of old to their laundry looked, and the tubs were white, and the presses fair; Now we cleansers clean in the midst of dirt, in a dank, dark den, with a noisome air. Sometimes I dream till the clouds of steam take the shadowy form of a spectral thing, A tyrant terror that threatens our lives, whilst we rub and scrub, whilst we rinse and wring. Well, cheer up, BET, girl, stiffen your lip, and straighten your back. You have finished your grub, So to work once more; if our champions score, we may find a new end to this Tale of a Tub!
A CURE FOR INFLUENZA.
Major O'Gourmand.
"SURE, ME DOCTHOR SAID A GLASS OR TWO OF DRY CHAMPAGNE'LL DO ME GOOD! BEGORRAH, THE BOTTLE'S DRY ENOUGH BY THIS TIME!"
STRIKING INTELLIGENCE.—A Page from a Londoner's Diary.
Sunday.—Can scarcely believe the news! What, no omnibuses! A strike! What shall we do? Fortunately always go to church on foot, so no loss in that. Then subsequent parade in the Park—don't require an omnibus for that, either. At the end of the day, can say that, take one thing with another, state of affairs more comfortable than might have been anticipated.
Monday.—Dreaded continuance of strike, but found, practically, little inconvenience. Had to walk to the office, and enjoyed the promenade immensely. Had no idea that a stroll along the Embankment was so delightful. After all, one can exist without omnibuses—at least, for a time.
Tuesday.—Find that people who were at their wits' end at the mere suggestion of a strike, are becoming reconciled to the situation. Streets certainly pleasanter without the omnibuses. Great, lumbering conveyances, filling up the road, and stopping the traffic! London looks twice as well without them! Tradesmen, too, say that the shops are just as well attended now as when the two great Companies were in full swing.
Wednesday.—Can't see what the omnibus people (both sides—Directors and employés) are quarrelling about. No matter of mine, and the Public are only too glad for a chance of a good walk. Fifty per cent. better since I have been obliged to give up the morning 'bus. Asked to-day to contribute something in support of the strikers. Certainly not, the longer the strike lasts the worse for the Public.
Thursday.—Really the present state of affairs is delightful. I have to thank the deadlock for teaching me to patronise the river steamboats. Pleasant journey from Vauxhall to the Temple for a penny! No idea that the Thames was so pretty at Westminster. View of the Houses of Parliament and the Embankment capital.
Friday.—Strike continues. Well I do not complain. Hired a hansom and find that considering the cab takes you up to door, it is really cheaper in the long run. If you use an omnibus, you get jolted, and run a chance of smashing your hat. If it rains you get splashed and having to finish your journey on foot, you might just as well have walked the whole way.
Saturday.—Strike arranged to cease on Monday! This is too much! Just as we were getting comfortable, all the disgusting lumbering old omnibuses are to come back again! It ought not to be allowed. Asked to-day to contribute something in support of the strikers. Certainly, the longer the strike lasts the better for the Public.
WHO'D HAVE THOUGHT IT?!!
First Slender Invalid. "I SAY, OLD MAN, WHAT A BEASTLY THING THIS INFLUENZA IS, EH? I'M JUST GETTING OVER IT."
His Wasting Friend. "AH! YOU'RE RIGHT, MY BOY! I'VE HAD IT TOO, AND THE WORST OF IT IS, IT PULLS A FELLOW DOWN SO FEARFULLY!!"
EXPLANATIONS À LA MODE.
(A Prophetic Forecast, by a Professional Pessimist.)
1891. The Leader of the House explains, in answer to a question, that no understanding exists between England and any Foreign country. No treaty is in contemplation, and never has been suggested on either side.
1892. The Government repeats that England is absolutely free from any international engagements. It must not be thought for a moment that a single battalion will be moved, or a solitary vessel dispatched abroad with warlike intentions.
1893. The Representative of the Cabinet once more denies the suggestion that, under any consideration whatever, will England bind herself to accept European responsibility. This has been said constantly for the last three years, and the Representative of the Cabinet is not only surprised but pained at these frequent and embarrassing interrogations.
1894. Once more, and for the last time, the PREMIER insists that whatever may happen abroad, England will be free from interference. It has been the policy of this great country for the last four years to steer clear of all embarrassing international complications. The other Great Powers are perfectly aware that, under no circumstances whatever, will our Army and Fleet be employed in taking part in the quarrels of our neighbours. The entire Cabinet are grieved at questions so frequently put to them—questions that are not only disquieting abroad, but a slur upon the intentions of men whose sole duty is the safety and peace of the British Empire.
1895. General European War—England in the midst of it!